by Gerry House
With a resounding “bonnnnnggg!” Coco stayed with the fence and Bullet dashed to freedom. The guy said, “We kept that monkey, but he wadn’t ever right after that. He walked sorta funny and jumped in your hair if he saw a dog.”
I won’t wear you out with too many stories, but I do miss those wonderful moments of reality and indescribable joy upon hearing things like that.
Hope Coco is at peace now.
Randy Travis and Don Williams
MY WIFE LOVES reality TV shows. She goes to the Woman Cave—the back bedroom you read about earlier—to watch The Real Housewives of (insert city/county here). I can take about five minutes of these shows. I really don’t care if Tawanda is upset that somebody spilled merlot on her newly dyed poodle. I know these programs are successful and a moneymaking machine, and I really like that Andy Cohen dude who is behind all of the shows.
Allyson watches these intelligent video documents armed with a phone, so she can send texts to her friend Lori and e-mails to others. There is a flurry of AT&T conversation that goes on for hours. If they had a reality show called The Real Housewives of Gassville, Arkansas, I might watch that. “On tonight’s show, Irene’s husband, Cooter, discovers those commodes at Target are for display only!” I’m certain that’s only weeks away from actually being on the tube. I am also really looking forward to X-Tractor.
When my dad used to listen to or watch baseball or a boxing match on the radio or television, he’d jump up and call his friend Bob Requardt about every five minutes, and they’d agree or argue, and then return to the action. I think this is what Allyson does now when Shelly on The Real Housewives tells Caprice, “Bite me, bitch.” (Or whatever they say on those shows.)
I have said for several years now, Jersey Shore is the third sign of the Apocalypse and that we should all get our affairs in order. The End Is Nigh. That said, if ever there was somebody custom-made for a reality show, it’s Randy Travis.
I’ve known Randy for decades. We’re not close, but he’d call every now and then and I’d see him at Music Row events all the time. Randy had a brief brush with the law when he was pretty young. He actually did qualify for the “Outlaw” brand of country, but now he’s as far from it as you can get. He’s a sweet and gentle soul. Randy is also pretty laid back. He moves very slowly. Randy Travis is so slow, he’s got a younger brother that is older than him now. He never answers right away. He sort of looks down and usually chuckles a little bit and then, in that unmistakable baritone, gives a good answer.
The only human who moves less than Randy Travis is Don Williams. Don is actually nicknamed “The Gentle Giant.” He’s gentle, but he’s not really all that big. Don has had an enormously successful recording career—way back from the folky days ’til he had hits on his own. My good pal Wayland Holyfield wrote classic songs such as “Some Broken Hearts” for Don.
Don Williams could be lapped by a Galápagos tortoise. You could tell Don, “Hey, Don, your pants are on fire!” and he’d get to that eventually sometime the next day. Whenever Don was on my show, I always felt like he was on a delay system. Sometimes when you watch the news, the anchor is talking to a reporter who’s someplace like Tanzania, with his hand to his ear. The anchor asks a question and about ten seconds go by before the reporter answers. That’s a satellite delay. Don Williams is always talking to you from Tanzania.
The easiest job in the music business is working the “follow” spotlight at a Don Williams concert. Stars have people who man the spot as the star moves around the stage, following them. At a Don Williams concert, you turn it on. Make sure Don’s in the light. Two hours later, you turn it off.
When Don talks, he’s hilarious. Unfortunately, by the time his answer oozes out, everybody is home asleep.
I know Don has had back trouble, and I don’t make fun of that, but I know he didn’t throw his back out making any sudden moves. Don is also a huge star in Europe. They don’t like sudden moves in Europe, either, so I guess it helps him.
If Don reads this, I’m certain I’ll get a warm response eleven years from now.
“Hey, Don, you’re about to be attacked by a rabid sloth! LOOK OUT!”
I never knew what the dealio was with Randy and his wife/manager Lib Hatcher. Lib was considerably older (sorry, Lib) than Randy. It always seemed like a mom/wife/handler/manager/custodial relationship. Hey, whatever works for somebody is good enough for me. Sadly, I know they’ve broken up, and I hear it’s not one of those “friendly breakups.” Don’t you love it when people announce they are separating and say they will remain the “very best of friends.” I always think, Yeah, they’re good friends, but omebody wants to use rat poison if they get the chance.
Randy Travis made some of the most wonderful records ever. He was authentic-sounding because he is authentic-sounding. Nothing more, nothing less. What you hear is pure Randy. “Forever and Ever Amen” was so simple and yet so endearing, heartfelt, and such a great song and record that people were drawn to Randy. As you know, I have a lot of theories. I’ve got my Randy theory, but I’m gonna let you make up your own theory. You hear things, you sense things, and you let it go because RT is so lovable.
Randy and Lib had a place in Hawaii for awhile. They raised macadamia nuts. Yes, Randy lived on a nut farm. I’m just sayin’ that’s reason right there to have a theory. (Roseanne Barr was required by law to live on a nut farm.) There is nothing in the world like that Randy Travis voice saying to you on the phone, “Gerry, now don’t go makin’ fun of my nuts. I heard you were doing that, and I’m proud of my nuts.” Lib would be screeching in the background in that unmistakable “Lib” voice of hers. He’d hold the phone away and say, “Lib, he’s laughing at my nuts.” And, of course, I was.
I always thought I saw somebody else behind Randy’s eyes. Almost like someone else who wanted out, to say something or do something else. Just my theory.
I really like him a lot and I think we might see that Randy one of these days. He recorded a song called “It’s Just a Matter of Time,” and I believe it is.
THIS JUST IN: Randy Travis wins “Worst Police Mug Shot in History” contest, displacing previous winners Glen Campbell and Nick Nolte. As I write about Randy, he goes and gets arrested for being naked in the road and resisting arrest. I hope our guy finds his way. I think there is a decent human in there.
THIS JUST IN: Randy has had a serious physical setback. I truly hope he recovers and can sing for us again. Most of all, I want to hear that baritone laugh. A glorious chuckle that tells you he’s truly finding something hilarious. The world needs that voice and that laugh.
As we go to press, “It’s Just a Matter of Time” now has a whole different meaning.
Who actually gave me the definition of torque?
A) Gene Watson
B) The Band Perry
C) Dario Franchitti
It Won’t Be Long
GENE WATSON IS ONE of the “old school” country singers. For the first fifteen years of my radio career, most of the country singers I talked to were nice but rarely very educated. They were blue-collar guys who broke out of the factory line by singing. They were the real honky-tonkers.
You may not even know who Gene Watson is, but he had several great records. His distinctive tenor voice gave us “Fourteen Carat Mind,” and, earlier, one of the most suggestive songs I ever heard get past the country audience, “Love in the Hot Afternoon.” But his signature song was “Farewell Party.” It’s one of those songs that ends on a powerful high note. We all waited for it. At concerts, you could see people hoping he’d make it one more time.
So, you get the picture. When you interview people over and over again, sometimes once or twice a year, it can get tiring. Boring for the artist to get asked the same questions and boring for the audience to hear the same answers. I usually tried to work the guest into the conversation we were already having before they arrived. Almost all of them seemed relieved to talk about anything other than “life on the road.”
It
so happened we were talking auto repair when Gene arrived one day, and I knew he’d been a mechanic working in a Houston body shop. We jabbered away about auto work until he mentioned he still had his old torque wrench.
Torque for some reason is a funny word to me. I asked him what torque really was. He said he knew but couldn’t tell me on the air. I had no idea what he was about to say and figured it couldn’t be that bad. His eyes started darting around, and he was stammering a bit. I thought, Uh-oh, let’s take a break, and off the air you tell me what torque is. Then we’ll come back and explain it to everyone.
It turns out it’s an old joke, but I hadn’t heard it at the time. So it’s a new joke if you haven’t heard it, right? Off the air, Gene said, “A guy gets up in the middle of the night with an erection and has to take a leak. If he’s standing in front of the john and pushes it down, and his feet fly out from underneath him, that’s torque.”
I laughed for the rest of the interview. And I spent the next hour and a half explaining to callers why I couldn’t tell them on the air what torque was. I remember telling one kind little old lady off the air what Gene had explained, and she said, “Oh, that’s a good one. Wait ’til I tell my bridge club.”
Religion and Country and TV Preachers
THE BANKLICK CHRISTIAN CHURCH in Independence, Kentucky, was the social center of my universe for the first fifteen years of my life. It remained so for my parents. Dad was a deacon. Mom was in the Eastern Star. I know a deacon is a big deal in a small church. I’m still not sure what the Order of the Eastern Star does, but Mom did it for years. I remember it was mostly organizing suppers after church.
Everyone brought potluck, which meant you’d have thirty fried chicken legs, one small bowl of pork ‘n’ beans, and a whole lot of that Jell-O with an orange floating in it. I hated potluck and often asked my mom why somebody couldn’t organize it so there’d be steak and mashed potatoes or pork chops and mashed potatoes. My mom used to say steak was too expensive for most folks. She bought cube steaks for us for dinner a lot. She had a silver hammer with square edges and pounded the cube steaks into submission. I knew we were having cube steak hours before dinner because of the massive hammering I heard from the kitchen. I’m not sure what cube steak is. From square animals, I guess, but this stuff could easily have been worn as a bulletproof vest in emergencies.
The church was your movie-set little white church—a 100-year-old building where about a hundred or so souls sought salvation every week. These were all good, decent, blue-collar people who were put through the wringer by a fire-and-brimstone preacher every Sunday morning. My electrician pop installed fans in the church that he “borrowed” from an old Kroger store, and it was probably the only time anything cool ever happened in that building.
We had a succession of preachers, but the ones I remember most vividly were Brother Carver, Brother Lemon, and . . . get ready for it . . . Brother Love. Yes, the guy’s name was Love, and he was a preacher, so he actually was Brother Love. Neil Diamond song or not, we had a regular salvation show every week with Da Bro of Love.
Brother Carver was a seminary professor in Cincinnati. He was a diminutive man who was perhaps the meekest person on Earth. If “the meek shall inherit the Earth,” Brother Carver will be first in line. He delivered a studious, detailed, and sleep-inducing sermon every week. This guy could give Xanax a run for its money. Heads were drooping moments after he hit the pulpit.
Snoring was a regular occurrence. The heat, the fans whirring, and that professorial explanation of what Deuteronomy meant to today’s world knocked you out quicker than you can say Nebuchadnezzar.
When Brother Carver left (to become a motivational speaker, I imagine), we got Brother Love. He was a young guy, full of common sense and the spirit of the Lord. His wife was a babe, so I welcomed the Brother and Sister into our midst with open arms. I skipped the “lusting in your heart” part and, therefore, felt no guilt over wondering what Sister Love looked like in lingerie. They left when Brother Love got a gig in a church in Nevada. I know firsthand there’s a lot of sinners in and around Las Vegas, so he had his work laid out for him.
Then we got Brother Lemon. Never a truer name in all of mankind. Brother Lemon was a gangly “street preacher” type. He could become possessed of the spirit like no one I’d seen before. Not even the guys who came back as missionaries from the Congo could match the Lemon Fervor. This guy could sweat and shout with the best of them.
Now, understand, this was the whitest church in America. Even a tiny bit of emotion got them riled up, but the Brother had the choir jiggling and people in the last pew listening. They were awake. No one could sleep, of course, through his shout-fest. This guy wailed! When he got to the end of his sermon, you just waited for somebody to come forward to the congregation singing “Softly and Tenderly.” It’s a sweet moment.
Only one thing was wrong with our Lemon De Brother. He suffered from a speech problem. I believe it’s called Substitution Syndrome. At the very peak of his sermon, when everyone was listening with rapt attention, he’d deliver one of these “And so, my brothers and sisters, remember it is as the Good Book stainly plates . . .” followed by a pause, and then he’d plow forward hoping nobody noticed. This was when it got good for me. A few seconds later, a sweaty Brother Lemon would then drop, “His word is a famp unto my leet.” If anybody knows me, I think I fostered my love of awkward situations in that little white church. The shaking shoulders, the squelched guffaws, and choked-back tears of laughter are still with me to this day.
He was a good man. He just had a little problem.
I know when Brother Lemon unleashed, “Don’t cast your swearls before pine,” I ran out the church doors to keep my head from exploding by trying to hold in the laughter. My mother was incensed and P.O.’d at me. My dad didn’t hear it because he was with the other deacons downstairs, counting the donations and whipping up the grape juice and crackers. Later, though, he did think it was hilarious.
So began my lifelong fascination with men of the Lord. Oh, there are a couple of women in there somewhere, but mostly it’s the Elmer Gantrys of the world I can’t abide (biblical term).
Country music and religion are deeply intertwined. I like that. I like some kind of deep belief system reflected in among the twang. I know a lot of artists and songwriters who are deeply religious. I also know a lot of charlatans, which is French for out-and-out crook—a swindler of the highest degree.
Just as I’ve written songs with guys who have said grace before a lunch break or who have invited me to share some testimony, I have also worked with and endured the hypocrites who fake their religiousness and screw everyone who comes in contact with them.
I had a lawyer who quit lawyering and became the head of a Christian music label. He was not cut out to do the Lord’s work. First of all, he was an atheist, and second, he is perhaps the most honest human on the planet. He finally had a nervous breakdown and left that world. He said he just couldn’t deal with folks who said their chief negotiator was God. He’d offer, say, 4.5 percentage “points” on an album. The artist got paid a formula of album sales based on those points. He’d make his offering, and they’d say, “Let me pray on it overnight.” They’d return the next day and say Jesus told them 4.5 points wasn’t enough. God thought eight would be better, and ten would be just heavenly.
They would also say God spoke to them about their per diems and how they also had to be doubled and, if possible, God wanted them to receive a fifty grand advance for wardrobe and hair without recouping requirements. You get the idea. Remember, this was a tiny percentage of the whole music business. But these people know who they are.
I should also add my mom loved Billy Graham. “Oh, he’s such a good man.” I agree. There is something calming and peaceful about a good man of God. I wish there were more like him.
If you’ve heard as many Sunday-morning radio shows as I have in my career, you can just tell when somebody is a con man. Those Nashville folks who bo
ught Conway Twitty’s old place, Twitty City, drive me up the wall. I used to see them in all their gospel glory, chugging expensive merlots at area restaurants. I’d then see them on their TV show the next day, begging for some “donations” because they wanted to put up a satellite dish in Italy. You know, where Rome and the Vatican are? Those poor Italian heathens just don’t have enough religion in their lives without these goobers from Twitty City delivering the good news over their new station in Eye-taly (as they called it).
Google them sometime and see how many houses and planes they have around the world. In my mind, the faith healers are the worst. Benny Hinn is the man who travels the world “healing” the bent and desperate people of this wretched Earth. I’ve never understood why, if a person has that “gift”—to touch somebody and make them walk again—do they have to come to some auditorium in Sioux City, Iowa? Doesn’t Benny know there are buildings called children’s hospitals, where parents would give their lives to see their baby walk again?
I watched him one night, and so many people were being given the “spirit” that he stopped touching them on the forehead. People get into a state at these events; I understand it. You get all worked up and go forward, and Benny taps you on the forehead and you keel over like a sack of rutabagas.
On this one special night, after awhile, Benny was whacking people with his clothing. I believe it was a lovely checked Botany 500 number. He was delivering people to the Lord through the use of his sport coat. A double turn, a whack of the jacket, and people fainted dead away. Put another one in the “saved” column.